Rock, Paper, Scissors
by Rachel C. Astrid
Summary: A glimpse into the psychology of Caskett's game of Roshambo from episode 4x13. Castle said there are strategies to the game. What were his, and why did they fail him three times? What were Kate's? Each chapter stands alone.
1. The Castle Angle

**Rock, Paper, Scissors**

By Rachel C. Astrid

Synopsis: A glimpse into the psychology of Caskett's game of Roshambo from episode 4x13. Castle said there are strategies to the game. What were his, and why did they fail him three times? What were Kate's? Each chapter stands alone.

Rated T for mild doses of language, just in case

A/N: Thanks to beladiola's review, I realized that so much of this story as I originally wrote it was concerned with Castle's perspective, so I actually just extracted the few Beckett Thoughts and used them in a whole Beckettized version in Ch. 2. (Same story retold.) Thanks for your input, beladiola!

Disclaimer: Andrew Marlowe created these wonderful characters and Rob Hanning wrote the script of 4x13, "An Embarrassment of Bitches," presumably including the dialogue of this scene. The actions and thoughts as described are in my words but based on the original direction and performance. I just wanted to get into the characters' heads for a bit to explore what may have gone unspoken between them.

Possible spoilers for 4x1 ("Rise"), 4x7 ("Cops and Robbers"), 4x10 ("Cuffed"), and of course 4x13 in this portion.

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><p>[ONE: CASTLE'S POV]<p>

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><p>"I mean, I don't want you to feel lonely. . . ."<p>

What was she doing? He had already conceded to her, albeit half-heartedly. But he saw his opportunity for a fair fight, and he took it.

"Well, I could flip you for it," he said, digging into a pocket for a coin.

"No Roshambo?"

Was she indignant, or just surprised?

"Well, I mean, that would put you at an unfair disadvantage." He flicked his head to the side with a shrug, like Elvis. "I'm pretty good at that g—"

Beckett was having none of that. "C'mon, Castle. Let's go." She uncrossed her arms and locked her eyes on him as they prepared to duel.

He warned her that there were strategies to the game, preparing her for his inevitable victory so she wouldn't take it too hard.

After all of his bizarre theories and notorious plot twists, surely Beckett would never suspect the writer to be so predictable and so trite as to choose paper.

Besides, Castle knew Beckett well enough to know that she was a rock, and that she made no effort to hide that indomitable part of her.

Unfortunately for Castle, her intuition was equally indomitable. It only dawned on him later how well Beckett knew his twisted logic about predictability. Beckett also knew that Castle knew that Beckett was a rock, so Beckett pulled scissors and beat the writer's trembling paper.

_Wait, what?_

He pursed his lips, and then he asked, "Two out of three?"

"Mm-hm." She offered him mercy, but only with an expression of utter complacency.

Meanwhile, Castle silently berated himself for having believed that Rock-Beckett would bare herself to him, and then he berated himself for every tantalizing direction in which that single thought led his vivid imagination.

_She'll use paper,_ he thought fiercely. She would use his most famed weapon—aside from the pen and his rapier wit—against him.

As she stared strategically at his face, he focused on her hand. He grimaced when she kept it hardened into a fist and trumped his measly scissors.

He suppressed the instantaneous thought that she proffered this rock to him like a piece of herself, like an unexpected gift. Like she had bared herself to him after all.

He looked up. "Three out of five?"

"Sure," she replied nonchalantly, assuming the position.

Castle recalled that the pseudonymous 'Trapper John' had referred to Beckett as a hellcat. Not for the first time, the phrase rang true to him. In this case, it wasn't for the ferocity in her voice but in her smirk.

All this over who would have temporary custody of Pilar's dog! Castle told himself that really was all that this was about as he steadied his nerves, but his nerves knew the lie just as well as Beckett apparently knew Castle's tells.

Beckett's sheer confidence in her ability to outwit him frightened him, frustrated him, and turned him on. Determined not to dwell on that while under her scrutiny, however, he bore into her eyes in a last-ditch effort to psych her out.

Maybe she was going to follow up with paper, he thought; the only weapon she had not yet wielded. Or would she double back instead? To scissors? To rock?

Ever at the forefront of his mind was Kate's wall. When she described it to him months ago, he had imagined it as cinder block, brick, or stone—firm materials in their own right, yes, but he could never bring his imagination to design the barricade in anything stronger.

It was a thick, high wall with a sturdy foundation and no discernible weak areas; a wall that they would not be able to kick down with the soles of his shoes or her badass high-heeled boots. He had a feeling that there would be another tiger behind it, too. Or a hellcat.

_The game, Castle. Focus._

He wished that he could use dynamite—in the game and in her metaphor—but since he couldn't do that, and since he was now too distracted by pheromones to think straight, he resorted to the same thing that he always did. He unleashed paper on her again: paper on which fantasies of her were not written in words, like in his books, but written instead in another subtle tremor of his fingers.

Screw Roshambo. Screw this game that brought her hand so torturously close without touching his. He wanted to reach out and hold her even more than he wanted to win that damned round.

But she had won, and her eyes twinkled in unsuspecting delight. He worried for a moment that she would sense the true reason for his discomfiture.

Beckett's scissor-spread fingers mimed a menacing cut in the air again, and lest she dare touch him in his vulnerable state, he yanked his flat hand away, wiping his face with it in defeat.

Beckett smiled wryly. "You know," she said, her offering of mercy once more deliciously superfluous, "there is another way that we can go about this. . . ."


	2. The Beckett Angle

**Rock, Paper, Scissors**

By Rachel C. Astrid

Synopsis: A glimpse into the psychology of Caskett's game of Roshambo from episode 4x13. Castle said there are strategies to the game. What were his, and why did they fail him three times? What were Kate's? Each chapter stands alone.

Possible spoilers for 1x1 ("Flowers for Your Grave"), 3x24 ("Knockout"), 4x1 ("Rise"), and of course 4x13 in this portion.

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><p>[TWO: BECKETT'S POV]<p>

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><p>"I mean, I don't want you to feel lonely. . . ."<p>

What was she doing? He had already conceded to her, albeit half-heartedly. She had just given him a foothold, and she wasn't even sure whether or not she had meant to do so.

"Well, I could flip you for it," he said, digging into a pocket.

Beckett was a little ticked that he was going to rely on a coin instead of facing her himself. Where was the fun in that? "No Roshambo?"

"Well, I mean, that would put you at an unfair disadvantage." He flicked his head to the side with a shrug, like Gaston. "I'm pretty good at that g—"

Beckett was having none of that. "C'mon, Castle. Let's go." She uncrossed her arms and locked her eyes on him as they prepared to duel.

He murmured something vaguely pompous about strategy, but she was already concentrating on his eyes. She could read him like a book. She almost hated the irony of that.

She hated that she interrupted her own train of thought to question whether she had used the word "irony" correctly, the undeniable influence of Castle's pet-peeve.

Most of all, she hated the thought that, just because Castle had claimed her as his "muse," he might read her like a book, too. Personal rivalries and hormonal complexities aside, losing to Castle would be, at the very least, a slight to her reputation as a detective who owned the interrogation room. She resolved then and there to outwit him.

She knew that look of his. He was plotting. It was his Farfetched Theory face. It was his Surefire Bestseller face. It was the face of an author terrified of being labeled "predictable."

It was the look of reverse psychology at work; Castle was going to do whatever Beckett would assume that he would do, if she were to assume that he was not going to scheme. This time, not scheming was his scheme.

_Like a book._ Would Castle seriously use paper on her?

But there was more to Roshambo than figuring out the opposition. It was also a matter of figuring out your opposition's understanding of you. Of course, Beckett knew that Castle knew that Beckett was a rock, so Beckett pulled scissors.

_Bull's-eye._

Castle's fingers trembled. He pursed his lips, and then he asked, "Two out of three?"

"Mm-hm." She offered him mercy, but she didn't hide her complacency.

_Maybe paper next,_ she considered. She could use his most famed weapon—aside from the pen and his rapier wit—against him.

No, that was what he expected or even wanted her to do. From the first time they met, their banter was built on Castle goading Beckett into playing his game. Using his previous weapon of choice on him now would be like Castle handcuffing Beckett after she'd cuffed him to the car.

_Wait, what?_

She poker-faced her way out of her simmering fantasy and stared strategically at his face, while he focused on her hand. Her fist of a rock trumped his measly scissors.

He looked like he was about to break a sweat. This was her favorite part of an interrogation; the adrenaline was intoxicating.

He looked up. "Three out of five?"

"Sure," she replied nonchalantly, assuming the position. She tried not to look like she was trying to look fierce. Staring down a suspect or a subordinate officer both required an assumption of one's authority, not an illusion of it.

She tried to rally from the string of thoughts that entangled her with the image of her subordinate, but what replaced it was no more helpful to her: an inner insistence that Castle was, in fact, her partner.

She had won before because she knew Castle so well, but thinking about how well she knew him and how well she wanted to know him was making her head foggy, so she changed tactics and put him back in the suspect's seat.

She raised a brow as he stared into her eyes for the first time during a competition. Switching up his M.O. like that had to mean either that he, too, was changing tactics—more direct intimidation, trying to get inside her head instead of studying her body language—or that he was desperate and just trying to psych her out.

What was that she detected? A look flashed ever so briefly across Castle's face, and she recognized it immediately.

_Damn it, Castle. I can feel you fantasizing about me and it isn't helping._

Yet it wasn't the undressing-her-with-his-eyes look, although she knew he wasn't above that. It was the breaking-down-the-wall-with-his-eyes look, and if she was perfectly honest, that look intimidated her even more, if only because each time she saw it he was closer to succeeding.

Still at the forefront of her mind was a memory of Rick's face hovering over hers after she was shot down. It was his most honest face. He'd told her he loved her. She could do nothing but close her eyes and slump back from the intensity of the wound and the weight of voiced truth.

_The game, Beckett. Focus._

She couldn't seem to keep him in the suspect's seat. Nevertheless, his reined desire melted into that utterly honest look, and she knew his next move as sure as she knew his heart.

Paper. She could feel it.

She had won yet again, and she tried not to gloat as Castle's face fell. She worried for a moment that he would question her methods, that he might somehow discern how she had learned his Honest Look.

Beckett's scissor-spread fingers mimed a menacing cut in the air, an empty threat against Castle's paper because she didn't dare touch him, even in jest, while she could feel surges of electricity running through her.

He yanked his flat hand back, anyway, and wiped his face with it in defeat.

Beckett smiled wryly, wondering whether his reaction was to the fact that he had lost out on Royal or that he had lost so dismally to her.

After all of her deductive finesse, part of her was almost disappointed that she had won. If Castle took Royal home, not only would he be happy, but she would have a go-to alibi for the occasional visit.

Apparently she had wanted to give him a foothold after all.

"You know," she said, extending yet another superfluous offer of mercy, "there is another way that we can go about this. . . ."


End file.
